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There's a saying in the north that goes if you are born in the cold, the cold stays in you . The kinder words were the ones his mother chose, which went cold hands, warm heart. She had held Sanji and called him her little snowman, the tip of his nose icy when she kissed it. She said it was normal, because their ancestors had slept on ice and lived in snow. That being from the north just meant being a little cold-blooded.
It meant he wouldn't be made for the heat. And he’s known this since he was a child, the word sunburn isn't a metaphor for something. Freckles bloom without his permission, remaining after the dry red shell peels away and he’s got enough issues with his appearance already, thank you. As lovely as the sun is, it hurts him if he isn't careful.
The cold’s in his hair and eyes. It said his hands would be cold, it said his toes would be cold, it said the blue veins of his wrist would show. And it’s funny, because he was not meant for warmth and warm places, but he will always despise the cold. Something about the need for human interaction for survival. Supposed to huddle together, hunt in packs, share. He remembers holding a practice sword and despite the hours gone by, the metal never grew warm. The stone of the dungeon that held a wet frigidity throughout the year. His body endured. Capability was not pleasure though, and despite outlasting the snow again and again, Sanji dreaded it's coming every time.
“It's training.” Zoro says, removing his shirt even as Usopp passes Luffy a scarf.
Sanji stares, and tries to understand. Nami is sick, they’re finding a doctor, the island they landed on is an iced over hell-hole. This is not some opportunity for training , and more than that, no one can become miraculously better at keeping their body heat stable in a lower temperature. The cook shakes his head and turns away, thinking about the concept of being warm when a place is cold. As if it was as simple as training oneself.
As he and Luffy leave with Nami, he glances at Zoro over his shoulder, wondering about that concept of warmth, of being warm.
-o-
Drum is far from the last winter island they dock at, and the chill is never less deplorable. Zoro wears coats now, miracles of miracles, face turning red when Sanji raises a brow and mentions that ‘training’.
What Sanji finds bearable about the cold is the way it makes everyone curl inwards on the table, with their elbows tucked in and their knees tight. Hands cradling warm cups of tea or hot cocoa, the steam curling up like a butterfly kiss, making everyone sigh. Luffy, Usopp and Chopper come bounding in, wet from playing in the snow, demanding something hearty and piping hot. It's a beautiful, intimate thing actually, to see everyone warming up by the steaming plates he lays out. His fingers are raw and red from scrubbing pots in the nearly-freezing water, but he's ludicrously pleased with himself. The soup for dinner had been heavy and spicy and he’d sat down, unprepared for his own food to taste so good . He hadn't realized the extent to his chill until he felt his body thawing out, shoulders unclenching a little. Was this the body’s way of saying it was grateful? If so, he wanted to apologize to it, saying he was sorry, he hadn't understood how hard it had been working.
“Nothing beats hot sake on a cold night.” Zoro sighs, exhaling a cloud of his own heat. Sanji watches it billow up like the smoke from his own cigarette.
And why is that, he wants to ask. Why do these things taste better when we feel worse? There's nothing nice about being cold, and if we get too cold we die , so why is it that a single sip of a warm beverage is heavenly? It could be the lie of it all, the fact that the temporary heat did not make up for the frozen air. That’s a bitter thought though, and Sanji has better things to do.
“You’re just an alcoholic.” He mutters, not feeling particularly creative.
Zoro gives him a look though, putting the cup back down and patting the seat beside him with exaggerated movements.
“Sit down, have some. Warm yourself up.”
Arguments wait at the tip of Sanji’s tongue. He still has work to do, still has insults to give, doesn't know how he feels about sharing a quiet space with Zoro alone. He’s afraid that he won't ever warm up, and at the same time worries about what would happen if he does. What if he becomes so content in the heat of his nakama’s side that when the cold comes back for him he freezes to death?
But he sits down anyways, watching as Zoro pours him the drink with steady hands. Silently, he accepted it, awed by the first touch of soft warmth as the ceramic comes to his fingertips. He downs it too fast, too eagerly, the urge to burn his insides making him sloppy.
“Good, right?” The swordsman grins, pouring him another cup without hesitation. Sanji watches those hands, and he wonders, not for the first time at all, if they’re warm. If maybe Zoro doesn't feel the cold the way he does. Doesn't live it.
“Yeah. Not bad.” The blonde murmurs, purposely letting his skin graze Zoro’s fingers.
He’s been burned by flames less hot than the swordsman's skin. Drinking slower this time, he thinks about what that means; that what is missing in him is abundant in Zoro.
-o-
“What's it like in the north?”
Sanji rolls his head in Zoro’s direction, raising a brow in question. The fire is still burning high, Luffy and Nami the last dancers standing, movement nothing more than slick silhouettes to Sanji’s drunk mind. The green-haired man’s words make even less sense than the dancing wolves did. Less sense than a god damn floating island.
“You said you were originally from the North Blue.” Zoro clarifies, unusually patient sounding.
He had said that, hadn't he. Showed a little of who he was to the crew on an impulse, because love demanded strange intimacies.
“It was dark.” Sanji says immediately, thinking of iron bars and helmets. He shakes himself a little and refocuses on his memories, which is a quick mistake. “Lonely.”
Beside him, Zoro is quiet for long enough that Sanji has to look over to make sure he’s still there. The other man has a troubled look on his face, partly confused. The flames from the campfire tint him a soft orange, his earrings glowing.
“Is that why you left?” He says, the earrings swaying a little. Sanji watches them move like fireflies.
Careful , he tells himself. But the drunk part of his brain doesn't care about careful. The drunk part of his brain wants to grab Zoro by the shoulders and ask him what it's like to have a little bit of fire inside his body, which must obviously be the explanation for why he's glowing like that and always so warm.
“It was cold.” He mumbles, having already forgotten the question. “Like, it was really fucking cold. All the time.”
There's a part of him that wants to jump in the fire. Maybe being licked by flames would feel wonderful. He’s been burned enough times to know how awful the truth would be, but there's a romantic notion to being swallowed by the dancing red and yellow.
“Is that why you hate winter islands?”
Sanji starts, his spine straightening a little where it had been falling into a steep slouch. He turns away from the fire, facing Zoro’s glowing eyes.
“No one likes being cold.” He says, because that's such an obvious truth. Only Chopper actually enjoys the full extent of winter and that's because he has a permanent fur coat.
He gets up then, tired of the conversation, annoyed at losing his pleasant haze of drunkenness to uncomfortable topics. There's a spark on the back of his neck that tells Sanji that Zoro is still watching him, but he ignores it in favor of the heat coming from the fire. He stands as close as he can bear, just an imperceptible distance away from getting burned. Closing his eyes, he revels in the feeling of being so close to a carnal death, eaten alive by the very source of what is, arguably, life.
-o-
He wakes up suddenly, confused and on edge. Something on him, a new weight that wasn't there when he had gone to bed, and he reaches out almost frantically.
His fingers wrap around Zoro’s wrist, and he nearly flinches.
“You were shivering.” The swordsman murmurs, low in the dark of the cabin.
Sanji blinks, eyes finally adjusting to the dim light. He connects the fabric still held in Zoro’s frozen hand, one of the worn, scratchy wool blankets they all keep in their hammocks. The cook already has his own, having tried to swaddle himself impossibly tight with it hours ago. This understanding sends something like electricity down his spine.
“What about you?” The blonde asks, voice rough from the bad sleep. He can't bring himself to loosen his grip on Zoro’s wrist.
“I run hot. I’ll be fine.” He replies.
There's residual heat on the blanket, as if Zoro’s body has transferred some of it right down to Sanji’s cold skin. It leaves him weak, and he can already feel himself traitorously falling back into bed, hands still firm around Zoro’s. His heart can't bear the thought of the other man lying, of Sanji possibly getting warm while Zoro slowly freezes. It makes him reach out with his other hand, searching until it rests on a solid chest.
Zoro is warm. Warmer than Sanji’s own fingers, he realizes, a little dumbstruck. They have to be close to a winter island by now, there's no other explanation, so how is the heat still there in him? Sanji wants to push harder, for his palm to breach the bone and muscle until he's inside that exquisite feeling, his own goosebumps pleasantly gone. Blearily, he registers that he’s somewhat dragged the other man down a little, and he finally releases his hold on the wrist.
Zoro pulls back gently, with the grace of night. He takes the heat with him, and Sanji would cry out if he weren't so exhausted. The gifted blanket is not nearly warm enough, but somehow it's too heavy, and it pulls the cook down until sleep consumes him once more.
Something smells faintly of steel and ash, as if Zoro has burned the blanket with his own white-hot skin.
-o-
The second time he wakes up confused and on edge is only a couple hours later, the ground hard underneath him. There's snow down the back of his shirt, and that's just fantastic.
“Oi, you awake?”
He turns sharply to the sound of Zoro’s voice, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. There's something wet on his face. Actually, his body is mostly a combination of wet and cold.
“What happened?” He mumbles, still trying to figure out how to sit up. There's a lot of pain combined with numbness.
“Avalanche. Found your feet sticking up out of the snow.”
Sanji seems to be having amazing luck involving massive amounts of snow hurtling towards him to cause his body harm. He puts a hand to his head, his fingers coming away sticky.
“You had a rock kinda lodged in your head. Pulled it out for you.” Zoro says.
Sanji blinks at his fingers in the dim light, his whole hand shaking a bit. There's a light fuzziness to his vision that doesn't seem great.
“How far are we from the ship?” Sanji asks, aware too late that he’s asking the wrong person about directions.
“Can't be far. I carried you around the side of the mountain.” Zoro says, looking somewhat proud of himself. Or as proud as a dark shape can look.
Sanji doesn't mention that going around the mountain would have taken them further from the ship than closer. He wants to close his eyes again, but he’s too uncomfortable. His body had started to shake almost violently.
He’s pretty sure he’s entered a state of feverish unconsciousness when a rough hand bodily pulls him into a partial hug, his side smothered in a heat that nearly makes him purr. He tries to reach up and grip something, pull the heat closer, but he can't focus on more than turning his head to the side, his own blood smearing onto something soft.
“You wouldn't get this cold if you ate more.” He swears he hears Zoro mumble, but Sanji’s too far gone to think about Zoro and caring . He’s barely wrapped his head around the blanket incident.
“You’re not supposed to be sweet.” The cook mumbles, probably not actually getting any of those words out. His lips can barely move.
“If you took care of yourself half as well as you take care of all of us-” But Sanji doesn't hear the rest to this dream. He floats away in a haze, something touching his brow. Like how his mother used to kiss him.
-o-
There's a dream he’s had before about the swordsman and stealing his heat. It’s morphed into something less violent, something more compassionate almost, where it involves them standing close enough that the air turns comfortable. He’d woken up in the infirmary, Merry sailing away from the winter island, a bandage around his head. Something about an avalanche and Zoro. He can't differentiate what was real and what was the imagined fantasy of being held. It makes him think about what it would feel like to have his stiff fingers wrapped up on those calloused hands, life returning where it was leaving. Maybe Zoro would be gentle, like how he’d placed that blanket over the cook all that time ago, quiet in his movements.
It was in opposition to their daily interactions of course. In a way Zoro does provide a kind of heat to Sanji’s skin, their fights keeping his blood pumping. Agitation, too, is a good way of keeping warm. Sometimes the mosshead can get Sanji’s blood absolutely boiling just with a look.
Coming up to a summer island is a pleasant surprise for everyone. It means a few days of lounging and cold drinks, and blissfully easy evenings. Sanji could already picture himself leaving the protective shade of an umbrella or tree or the galley to walk along the beach, free in a way the heat of the day makes him. Heavy and content.
Usopp and Luffy haul in generous bundles of strange fruit and roots. Sightings of wild animals make Sanji’s mood lift even further still, the prospect of hunting now open. Zoro returns from wandering off, some kind of leopard being dragged behind, and they set up a fire for it. Something to further prove that warm places were superior; they always had a source of food. Frozen tundras rarely had more than a small animal to eat.
Long into the evening, after Luffy and the others had eaten their fill, Sanji finds himself on the other side of the island, alone. His shirt lies discarded in the sand, his swim trunks the only thing on him. It's a rare day that he feels comfortable enough to remove his layers of clothing, and rarer still that he would want to. He likes being put together in his appearance, it gives him a sense of stability and control. But sometimes there's an urge, like in the present moment, to bare himself in some kind of way. To let his shoulders drop and his pale skin feel the actual air.
“Oi, cook.”
Sanji jumps a little, turning to see Zoro come stomping out of the jungle. The swordsman stops a little ways away, as if he understands that this is a somewhat private moment.
The blonde tries not to be self conscious. On a small ship like Merry, everyone has caught glimpses of each other in states of undress. Still, it was overly obvious that where some people (Zoro and Luffy mostly) had no problem showing skin, Sanji just- didn't. He feels almost scandalous in nothing but his shorts, the skin right above his knees visible as well as the dip in his stomach. He turns away from Zoro, choosing to look at the moon and the stars.
Sanji doesn't expect the other man to actually join him. It isn't unwelcome at all, which is even more surprising. Being next to Zoro like this, while he’s exposed in this way is almost a relief. He still feels a slight shiver crawl up his spine at the way the green-haired man is obviously staring. He turns back, watching Zoro as Zoro watches the space under his chin. Sanji brings one hand up to his arm, a half-hearted attempt to hide himself a little out of habit.
“Are you still cold?” Zoro asks, now following the movement as Sanji rubs his arm a little.
“Not really.” Sanji replies quietly. Maybe in an hour once the heat from the sun fully vanishes from the island he’ll feel the familiar chill again.
“I could-” But Zoro cuts himself off, looking away.
There's a softness to him in the way his green hair is mussed, sand sticking to his worn pants. His bare feet sink into the sand in a way that Sanji finds oddly wonderful. This large, warm creature in an open, warm space. Zoro fit the heat the way the sun fit the sky.
“You could what?” Sanji urges, letting his hand drop, revealing what was left to be revealed. Zoro’s eyes dart back to his neck, then away again.
“Help. With that.” Zoro mumbles, his face taking on a slight flush.
Sanji feels giddy. Maybe there had always been a part of him that was selfish and hungry for the things he couldn't get enough of. As a child, recovering with Zeff, eating had been a test in patience. Even now there were horrible moments when he considered eating more than even Luffy, and somehow he knows that it would never be enough. The same thing applies to the cold in his bones, the way something primal in him aches to get too close to a flame. Maybe Zoro could burn him, just a little.
“How?” He asks, curious. Would Zoro throw a blanket over him and call it a day? How much was being offered?
In answer, the swordsman reaches out, slowly. His fingers wrap firmly around Sanji’s hand, and it leaves the cook breathless. It's like touching sun-scorched sand. It's like melted wax running down his palm. Red coals weren’t this hot.
Zoro watches him carefully, his grip just relaxed enough that Sanji knows he could free his hand easily if he wanted. He makes sure that his own fingers grip back with a momentary squeeze, trapping all that heat. A part of him thinks he might catch frostbite if Zoro moves even a step away.
“I get cold a lot.” the cook murmurs, still breathless.
Zoro grins, the white slash of his teeth in the night making electricity bounce down Sanji’s whole body.
“Good.”
-o-
What if touching his skin is like touching something dead? What if he feels strange and wrong under warm hands? He’d had a night with a man once who’d laughed at how cold his toes were, but Zoro is no one man from a late night. What if the swordsman realizes how uncomfortable it is to lay next to something so cold and brittle?
But Zoro doesn't complain. He holds Sanji so close that their bodies line up at all angles, the gentle puff of his breath tickling the cook’s exposed neck. He holds Sanji loosely the first night, and then gradually tighter, and then loose again, going through the motions of something. Sanji rarely holds back, because he's afraid his nails might bite into Zoro’s skin with a clenched grip, and then the swordsman will see how desperate he is for this. Being wrapped up in Zoro’s body is the best of this anyways, the original promise of warmth being fulfilled there.
And there is no warmth like Zoro’s warmth. Sanji presses his cold nose into the crook of the other man’s neck, and gets the slightest hum of a chuckle in response. What's important is that Zoro’s arms never move to push him away, no matter how selfish Sanji continues to be. He is a thief, or maybe more than that. Icarus flew towards the sun for a reason. The cook wonders when he's going to fall back down himself.
The wax wings melt on their way to another winter island, with Sanji seeking out his personal heater as he’s come to do. Zoro’s all but waiting for him on deck, and silently they go to the galley. Whoevers on watch can spread the latest gossip for all both men care.
Sanji shuts the door with a soft click , and then Zoro is there, crowding into his space, looking at him with a consideration that makes the cook nervous. Logically, Sanji knows the situation is- odd to say the least. Neither of them have made any move for something further than what can really only be described as cuddling, and on Sanji’s part it's because he’s scared. He needs this thing with Zoro, where he is held like something worth value, where he is held by a man who he trusts, by a man who is strong. He’s come to live by the way the swordsman presses his chest to Sanji’s back, because that's an intimacy that rivals anything even remotely known to the blonde. Because who’d have thought Roronoa Zoro, destined to be the world's greatest swordsman, would care about relaxing his grip to embrace someone of such utterly little worth.
That's why it's terrifying when Zoro leans in, taking the rest of the careful space they’d both left, pressing a light kiss to Sanji’s lips. It's not that Sanji doesn't want this- it's that he doesn't want just this. He does not want to become a warm body in the night, as hypocritical as that is of him to say. This thing with Zoro is fragile and beautiful and Sanji thinks it could be something extraordinary. That's why he doesn't know what to do when the green-haired man leans back, watching him so carefully. Sanji’s been cold for what feels like his entire life, and he’s not ready to give up the feeling of being warm under Zoro’s hands.
Zoro waits for a long time, and Sanji holds his breath. He brings a hand up to rub at his arm, that habit of trying to warm himself up refusing to settle down. Something like sadness breaks across the swordsman’s face, tucked away and hidden just as quickly as it appeared though. And then he reaches out, turning the handle for the door, and disappears into the outside blackness.
Sanji makes hot tea, burns his tongue, and wonders if he was born this way. If he was born to end up this way.
-o-
The universe is kind to him by presenting a summer island as the next destination. A bright, cheerful city with gold and purple and green flags, pastries made with flowers and honey. A place where sadness is not allowed.
Chopper complains about the heat, and Zoro keeps him company, both of them holed up in the boys room. Sanji goes shopping with Nami, trying to throw himself into the vibrant fabrics and the navigator's beauty. He catches a glimpse of Robin gliding by, and can distantly hear Usopp and Luffy laughing together.
They get excellent deals at the market. It should be a cause for celebration, but Sanji can't muster up the enthusiasm to match Nami’s. She sends him off with extra pocket money, a worried frown maring her face. He considers buying a vintage wine with the coins, on getting drunk somewhere alone.
He just ends up walking along the beach though, the town growing distant. The sun is vicious, and it feels a little good to have his skin crack under the heat, the backs of his hands starting to grow pink. Loosening his tie, he considers hunting for shellfish, swimming deep in the day-warmed waters. He removes his shoes and shirt, leaving them in a pile on the shore as he wades into the sea.
At least running cooler means the water temperature never shocks him. It's not unpleasant, to be in water that's a little cold. As long as he keeps swimming he never actually feels it, and he could never be bitter towards the ocean for being chilled the way he is towards land. The ocean is abundance, always offering, no matter how icy.
He’s not sure how long he swims for, but when he returns to the shore the sun has dipped, and Zoro is waiting for him.
Sanji walks calmly towards his clothes, taking his shirt and hastily using it to dry himself a little. He’s gone back to being cold again, but the sun is still there to save him where Zoro probably won't anymore. The shirt is uncomfortable and clings to his skin, but he buttons it up anyways, aware of how unpleasant his pale skin probably looks in the daylight. Why hadn't the swordsman turned away in revulsion that first night, witnessing Sanji’s sickly body in the moonlight? Why was he here now?
“Are you still cold?” Zoro asks suddenly, his gaze steady.
Sanji feels like a small step above a drowned rat, wet and a little clammy. He hadn't even found anything to take back with him, and has nothing but crumpled clothes to show for it. The choice to deny his discomfort is compulsive.
“Yes.” He says, surprising himself.
“But what if you weren't?” Zoro presses. “What if you were like Usopp or Chopper, always complaining about the heat?”
What a concept. Sanji considers that, but he already knows the answer. It's like hunger- how you can't complain about bad food if you were once starving. He’d never complain about heat having grown up freezing.
“We can't all run hot.” He bites out, a little harshly. It still hurts though, to think of Zoro taking his heat away so easily.
“But if you did ,” Zoro urges, moving just a step closer. “Would you still want my help?”
It clicks into place then- the kiss that was not just a kiss. The hurt look on his face before he left. Sanji had been afraid of being used, and here Zoro was, considering himself as a tool by the cook’s leisure. That selfish, selfish part in Sanji had gone with it, craving the moments of shared heat and not giving a damn for the cruelty of it. This whole time Zoro had been giving, and Sanji had been taking, and it showed.
So he cups the swordsman’s face, tenderly, the way Zoro had always taken care to be with him, and kisses the man.
“If there ever comes a day where I’m not freezing my ass off,” He says between kisses, darting back in to press his lips chastly to the swordsman’s cheeks and brow. “If I’m boiling up and getting heatstroke- if I get set of fire ,” He kisses Zoro on the lips again, as sweetly as possible, finally feeling the returning pressure to the kiss. “I’d still want you.”
Theres obvious relief in the way Zoro presses himself back up against Sanji, and it breaks the cook’s heart a little. Those thick, warm arms rise up to wrap around him, and Sanji could cry over the thought of losing this.
“You think you’re so cold, but you’re not.” Zoro whispers it against his lips, like a grand secret. Sanji wants to argue because he is , he is so cold, he is always so cold and it's made him exhausted. But maybe he’s never understood the right way to properly warm up. That it had to be from the inside out, rather than the outside in.
-o-
Zoro becomes emboldened, dragging Sanji away at all hours to do things less suitable for public viewing. Sometimes nothing more than a brief kiss. Sometimes not so brief.
What makes all the difference in the world is the sleeping situation. Why Saji had never thought to just share a bed before seems beyond him when the benefits were so large. He falls asleep easier than ever, the content hours of secure sleep adding up to a refreshed morning. For someone so muscle-hardened, Zoro makes a remarkably good pillow. The swordsman seems equally keen on the arrangement, and Sanji’s old hammock becomes a nest of Usopp’s junk. The extra blanket gathers dust, unneeded and unused.
“It's too cold for that.” Sanji says, his teeth practically chattering as the two of them press together in the crows nest. He bats the other man’s hand away from his shirt buttons, annoyed.
Zoro picks the worst times to tug at the cook’s clothes, asking permission for removal. Always out in the frozen air or the snow or the cold as shit storage area. Sanji doesn't understand the spike in desire in relation to such uncomfortable weather.
“I thought you wanted me to warm you up.” Zoro says, a shit-eating grin on his face. Sanji pretends he isn't blushing from the implications.
“I can barely stretch my legs out up here! I’m not breaking my back and getting frostbite over your dick.”
Zoro laughs at that, open-mouthed and loud. It makes Sanji grin too.
“Not here, no.” Zoro says, still chuckling. Sanji reaches out and wipes at the corner of his hazel eyes, clearing the slight dampness away. Zoro takes his hand and holds it there, captive in the act of intimacy. “I want it to be good for you.” He says, the mirth gone, a soft seriousness taking over.
Sanji feels himself lighting up a brilliant red, ears to neck. The urge to flee makes him feel jittery in his skin, at war with the now familiar comfort of being close to Zoro. He’s not sure he’s shivering from the cold anymore.
“Ok.” He says weakly, gaze fixed somewhere on the corner of a wooden plank. Zoro squeezes his hand lightly, still not letting go. It keeps him from floating away. Or maybe falling. He warns himself about Icarus again.
Zoro doesn't push further than that. He holds Sanji for the rest of the night easily, sometimes running a hand through blond hair. Again, the cook thinks about how little he’s giving back, about how Zoro had said good for him , but what about the swordsman? The thought of somehow paying back the other man with his body was controversially vile and comforting. In the end he decides he’ll just have to cook more of the marimo’s favorite meals, make that his priority. Buy more sake. Feed this strange creature that was his.
-o-
It makes Sanji nervous- the waiting. Zoro is a patient man, and the cook’s not so much. Every day is an opportunity for the swordsman to realize this is all a mistake, that Sanji is not something to be desired, that he’s too much or too less, that he’s not even very nice looking, it's just careful trickery. Throwing himself into cooking helps, making three-tiered cakes and excessively rich pasta dishes, probably giving Chopper new cavities with all the experimental sweets. There's onigiri at every possible meal and snack, and it's embarrassing is what is it. Causes a lot of eyebrow lifts from the crew, a lot of smirking.
The next summer island is when Zoro finally approaches him, taking his hand and giving him one of his many serious, silent looks that Sanji’s had to learn to translate. Sanji takes in the blanket under the swordsman’s arm, and swallows.
Zoro leads them in a winding, downright stupid zigzag to the furthest beach, and that makes Sanji relax a little, until Zoro just stops . There's miles of sand stretching out on either side, and that's just- very open.
“Here?” He asks, still confused. Frankly he sees no appeal to outdoor sex, all their bits being exposed to whatever. Oh god, what if a bug lands on him?
“We don't have to do anything.” Zoro says, laying the blanket out and sitting. He pats the space beside him, and Sanji sits awkwardly. “I just know you like these places. You feel comfortable.” He looks right at the cook with a full intensity that makes it impossible to look away. “It was where I realized you were beautiful.”
Oh shit , he thinks, stupidly. He blanks on how to speak, the ground dropping out from under him. This wasn't what he imagined at all. This wasn't- he didn't deserve this.
“What the fuck.” He whispers, mostly to himself. Zoro reaches out and tucks a strand of loose gold out of the way.
“I’m gonna tell you the truth because I think you need it.” Zoro says, leaning forward and brushing his lips just barely against a pale cheekbone. “Sanji.” He hums, dropping the name like a bomb.
Sanji thinks he could die from this. If Zoro wanted too, all he’d have to do is keep going and those gentle words would tear the cook to bits like the world's kindest sword. He’d bleed out with a bursting heart.
“I don't have anything to give you.” Sanji says, desperate, trying to make sure the other man gets it.
“You’re an idiot.” He replies, not unkindly. “You’ve given me everything.”
That's not true , he thinks, frantic, panicking now. It's a lie, I’ve tricked you, I’m so sorry . His heart rate picks up to a dangerous speed, his breathing coming in short, unnerved bursts. Zoro takes one of his hands, the other curling around the back of his neck, steady.
“Look at me.” He says, low and soothing. Sanji does, trying to focus on the slight gray tint of the swordsman’s eyes. Like there's steel even there. “You’re ok. It's ok.”
“I love you.” Sanji chokes out, something stuck in the back of his throat. The last real thing he has to offer, leaving his body and tucking itself somewhere in Zoro. Except it’s clearly been there for a while, keeping warm where it belongs.
Zoro pulls him in until Sanji’s crushed to his chest, his head tucked into the space by a heavy pulse. He’s pretty sure this is the safest place he’s ever been, and he might be crying a little.
“ Now you’ve given me everything.” There's a smile in Zoro’s voice, one of his hands stroking blonde hair. “I love you too.” And Sanji’s definitely crying now.
The melodramatics stop long enough for the cook to get a handle on himself and kiss the other man. It's messy and frantic enough that Zoro gets the hint and moves them to a less vertical position. From there it's a welcome escape from so much emotion, Sanji taking every inch of skin as a gift, giving equally in that part, letting himself be peeled out of everything. The heat creeps into every available part of him until he can't catch his breath, until he’s actually boiling and he thinks the sweat between them is sizzling. There's no part of him or Zoro anymore, there's only one mess of limbs in the sand, something grotesque and exquisite at the same time. He comes alive by the way Zoro pants his name, feeling like something beautiful for the first time in his life.
Sanji runs a hand through mused green hair, soft snores vibrating on his chest as the moon rises higher. This is what it's like to outfly Icarus. He knows what the sun tastes like now.
-o-
I am a thief , he still thinks, weeks, years, a lifetime later. Somewhere down the line where time turns thick and slow. Zoro rubs the warmth back into Sanji’s thin fingers, blowing on them occasionally, giving this part of himself away. Sometimes it's as simple as a kiss to his throat, the softest touch bringing something like fire to his blood. He’ll never retain the heat properly, his body just refuses to, but there are arms waiting to fold around him now. There are words whispered in his ear that could melt ice.
“Are you still cold?” Zoro murmurs, sometime in the night when it's nearly day. There's no real reason to be awake. The hammock sways.
“No.” Sanji whispers. The wind whips outside. Ice gathers on the porthole. Something melts.